


John Watson Does Not Have a Foot Fetish

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: An excuse for smut, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson does not have a foot fetish. Except for one time when he does, but like just about everything else that’s both insane and perfect about his life, it’s Sherlock’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson Does Not Have a Foot Fetish

John Watson does not have a foot fetish. Feet are simply feet. Just as legs are legs, arms are arms, and arses are arses. It's the whole package that John appreciates. Which isn't to say that he doesn't enjoy the sight of a shapely foot slipped into a high heeled shoe, and the resulting lift and curve and tightening of the leg and attached buttock, but it's not a _specific_ turn on. 

Or so he thinks. 

When he discovers that Sherlock likes to parade around the flat barefoot, seemingly unaware of the presence of dangerous sharp objects on the floor, John feels at first a flicker of alarm, but it's the same sort of alarm he would feel for any health and safety violation, especially since he seems to have moved into a working forensics laboratory. 

When he discovers that Sherlock has a propensity for wiggling his bare toes when he's thinking and unshod, John merely files it away in his _Quirks of Sherlock Holmes_ file, so to speak. He may see but not _observe_ , as Sherlock seems to delight in pointing out, but he does, on occasion, notice the personal habits of the people he's living with. 

So he doesn't have a foot fetish. Or even an interest in feet in general, or Sherlock's in particular, not even when Sherlock manages to sprain his ankle badly during a chase and John helps him home and binds up the offending body part. 

"Stop wiggling your toes! That can't feel good," he remarks to Sherlock as he tightens the wrap. 

"Can't help it," Sherlock says and hisses. 

"Did that hurt?" 

" _Obviously_."

John tweaks the bandage and sits back on his heels. 

"Try that," he says.

"Better." Sherlock's face is pasty and his lip is bloody where he's been biting it. 

"You know, for someone who complains as loudly as you do when you can't find your cigarettes, you _are_ allowed to vocally express your discomfort when I'm trying to patch you up," John says. 

"I… you noticed?"

John levers himself up with a grunt and starts packing away the bandages. 

"'Course I did," John replies. "Difficult not to, with you slamming about the place like a hurricane with a nic fit. Those things will kill you," he adds – more out of habit than any real conviction that he'll actually change Sherlock's behavior by dint of nagging.

He turns and only just catches a glimpse of Sherlock's face; his expression is unreadable, but with Sherlock, that's hardly news. 

###

Years. God, it's been almost three years with Sherlock, and then almost three years without, and then another year with him, and still John can't believe how lucky he is to be living with a madman. 

Well, okay, he thinks he's lucky when he's about to fall asleep at night, worn out by following Sherlock all over London (or wherever), and he stares at the ceiling and smiles, a ridiculous surge of joy ticking his ribs. The rest of the time, it's like living with a madman. 

Who still wiggles his toes when he's thinking. Or pleased, or (on one memorable occasion) aroused. That last one really was John's fault. Or Sherlock's. Really, it was Sherlock's fault – because really, who _doesn't_ shut the door to the bathroom when one wants a wank?

Never mind that, though, John thinks. Because even a genius is allowed to forget things _occasionally_. And all John saw was a fair mileage of leg and shapely calf, with a slender ankle and foot. So, it hardly counts, except that Sherlock had gasped loudly (over the rhythmic splashing of the bathwater) and then shouted, "Busy!"

So it's normal. For Sherlock. Or really, normal for Sherlock and John. Or SherlockandJohn, as John thinks of them sometimes. Which might explain why he can't seem to keep a girlfriend longer than five weeks. 

###

Five weeks shouldn't be some kind of horrible record for length of a relationship, John thinks as Ella, or Stella, stalks out of 221B and out of his life. The door slams vindictively downstairs, and he slumps back on the sofa. So disappointed is he (not upset, really, because even he's seen the end of this one coming from about three miles off), that he doesn't hear the door slam again. He does, however, hear a grunt and a bitten off curse as Sherlock hauls himself up the stairs. 

"What the hell happened to you?" John asks as Sherlock _finally_ makes it up the stairs and into the flat.

"Thames. Ice."

Sherlock is dripping and limping, trailing water through the flat to his bedroom. 

John sighs and downs the rest of his wine. He picks up the bottle and Ella’s (or Stella's) glass and follows him. 

In the bedroom, Sherlock has shucked out of most of his wet clothes and is sitting on the bed in his pants, trying to peel off his socks. 

"Here." John pours him a glass of wine and thrusts it at him. 

"Shouldn't it be hot tea, _doctor_?" Sherlock asks. 

John grunts and kneels at the foot of the bed. 

"Hold still," he says, taking Sherlock's left foot into his hand. "Did you sprain it again?" he asks.

"No, just twisted it on the ice."

Sherlock's foot, now out of his sock, is cold. John holds the foot, trying to warm it with his hands, rubbing gently. 

"No frostbite?" Sherlock asks.

"No. Did you really fall in the river? Again?"

"It was a near thing." Sherlock sighs. "Your hands are warm. It feels nice."

John slides his hands up the arch of Sherlock's foot, his hand almost wrapping around Sherlock's ankle, and that's the moment that John knows something's changed. 

He's looking up at Sherlock, whose hair is damp and drying in all sorts of directions, and Sherlock is watching him, the expression on his face… well, John may not be a genius, but he can tell _exactly_ what that expression means. Sherlock's toes, the ones on his left foot, are now resting against John's chest, and the toes on his right foot, still in its sock, are nestled in John's lap, wiggling. And if that weren't evidence enough, John can clearly see Sherlock's cock hardening, pressing against the cotton of his pants. 

"Tell me this isn't…" John doesn't know what it is he _doesn't_ want this to be. Because it's Sherlock, and he's John, and he knows that Sherlock's a sexual creature (who wanks in the bath), but he's not… And it doesn't matter, really, because John Watson, who does not in any way, shape, or form have a foot fetish, is bending and pressing his lips to Sherlock's left instep. And then to his ankle, and Sherlock's foot is still cold, but it doesn't matter because then he's kissing Sherlock's calf, and Sherlock sighs again.

But John won't be hurried. Because if he's going to do this, he's going to do it _right_. And maybe his therapist would say that this was some sort of latent desire, that he's always wanted to shag Sherlock, but John really doesn't care because Sherlock's calf is perfect. Sherlock's groan is perfect, too. And the inside of his knee, and his inner thigh. John bites down gently and is rewarded with an, "Oh, fuck yes."

Sherlock smells of river water and sex and… Sherlock. John nuzzles at his cock through the fabric of his pants. 

"John," Sherlock pants. 

John jerks his head up and Sherlock is staring down at him. He is flushed, his lips wet, his chest heaving, and all John wants to do is lick his way into that mouth and claim it. 

"Yes," Sherlock says, and then, "Fuck," as John bites down on Sherlock's hip. In the morning, he'll find the bruise that he left there. In the meantime, he's crawling up Sherlock's torso, laving it with his tongue, his lips, his teeth, biting and kissing as Sherlock curses and grunts and bucks up against John's thigh. 

"Off," he grunts as John reaches his nipple. 

"Hmm?" John murmurs. 

"Off!" Sherlock demands, levering his legs up to tug on John's jeans while grabbing at John's shirt. "All of it. Off."

John kneels up, brackets his thighs just over Sherlock's groin, and helps Sherlock shuck off his shirt; together, they manage to undo John's zip. John falls to one side, cursing as his erection, his pants, and his jeans get tangled in his and Sherlock's legs, but then Sherlock is on him, pulling and dragging John out of his jeans and pants and growling as he claims John's mouth. 

John's vision blurs and clouds over as he feels the heat of Sherlock's demanding mouth and tongue. It should feel strange, kissing Sherlock, should feel as bizarre as living with Sherlock feels, but the thing is, it feels just like home, just like living with Sherlock feels perfectly natural, just like being in Sherlock's mad whirlwind feels normal and _good_.

Except this is beyond good. It's brilliant and maddening because he can't get Sherlock close enough, no matter how hard he tries, and it's exactly everything John wants right now, now now. 

Somewhere in the tussle, Sherlock's lost his pants, and somewhere in the back of John's mind, he's grateful, because pinned under Sherlock, rational thought and planning isn't something that's a priority for him right now. 

What is a priority is the fact that Sherlock's got both of their cocks in his hand and is pumping and stroking them both and biting at John's neck and it's just too fucking perfect. 

"Can you, John?" Sherlock growls in his ear. "Can you come like this? With my hand and my cock?"

John's mouth and brain connect enough for him to grunt something that Sherlock must take for an affirmation because Sherlock's on him, grunting and thrusting, and John's retaliating thrust for thrust as Sherlock's hand surrounds him, and his breath is hot on John's ear and neck and fuck, fuck, fuck…

John's brain swims back into focus a few minutes later, when he turns his head and catches Sherlock staring at him. 

"Oh, fuck," he grunts. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock asks. Against John's calf, Sherlock's toes are wiggling. "Oh, you're worried."

"Well," John manages. "I wouldn't say _worried_. Just… You.."

"Of course," Sherlock says. "I supposed that might be what you were concerned about. Even after you caught me wanking. _And_ after the last three years. And even… Really, John. You're comfortable with the fact that you've had a sexual encounter with a man, and you may be a bit of a slag…"

"Oi!"

"But even you are gentleman enough to wait until you're certain you like a person before you sleep with them. Don't you think it makes _sense_ that you and I have started shagging?" 

"Erm…" John has absolutely no idea how to respond to that so very typically Sherlockian line of argument. And, as is typical when confronted with Sherlock proposing something so irrational, so stupid, so… dangerous, well…

_Want to see some more?_

How else can John respond?

"Oh God," John groans, rubbing his eyes. "So this is… a thing now? Us?"

Sherlock's laugh is dark and beautiful, and his body is warm as he pulls the duvet around them. 

"Obvious, John," he says, reaching over to turn out the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. And thanks to Bluestocking79 for her fabulous comma-fu.


End file.
